


Trust Me, I'm a Doctor

by onward_came_the_meteors



Series: October 2020 Prompts [30]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Humor, Hurt Bruce Banner, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, POV Third Person, Post-Avengers (2012), Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onward_came_the_meteors/pseuds/onward_came_the_meteors
Summary: When Bruce is captured, the other Avengers have his back.Even if he still thinks his healing factor would have kicked ineventually.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Avengers Team, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark
Series: October 2020 Prompts [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947679
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: Brucie Bear Comfort Fics





	Trust Me, I'm a Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Day 30 (!!!!!), for the prompt "ignoring an injury"

_ Oh god. _

Blink. Blink blink blink.

_ Where… _

Blink.

_ Where am I? _

Light.

Very bright light, all piercing whiteness.

It hurt his head to look at it.

_ What is this place? _

Blink. Harder this time. It didn’t do much—everything still blurred.

Everything was shadows and light. There would be more, but he couldn’t make it out. Couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it.

He was numb.

_ What happened? _

Blink blink blink. It was the only movement he had. He wasn’t even sure, anymore, whether he was still attached to the rest of his body, or whether—

_ Wait. _

A finger twitched. Nerves responding to stimuli, and his excitement grew as the new sense of feeling started to spread through his hand, slowly but surely until… until he found himself straining against bindings.

Familiar.

Unfortunately. 

_ This is bad. _

His mind supplied that not incorrect but extraordinarily unhelpful thought, and although even the fact that he  _ could _ form thoughts should’ve been a good sign, it was also a sign that he was starting to wake up. And waking up meant becoming aware of how tightly he was currently strapped down, the cold ache of the table against his back, the deafening silence in his ears, and the dawning realization of just how screwed he was.

Very. In case it wasn’t already obvious.

He tried to turn his head, what felt like all of his muscles working together in a combined effort, and more of the blinding light kaleidescoped into his eyes. The pain in his head was now throbbing full force, an unwelcome complement to the dull bruising feeling up and down his body that sparked whenever he yanked halfheartedly on the restraints that he knew wouldn’t give way. They never did. Not when he was in this form, anyway.

And it was that thought that made him suddenly aware of why it had felt so _ off. _

The emptiness in the back of his mind. The emptiness where he would expect to hear the growl, feel the forceful shove of someone else straining for the surface—and he would have let him, wouldn’t have had a choice, because the alternative—

Well. The alternative was exactly the situation he was in now. Trapped, restrained, and almost definitely tranquilized (he’d become familiar with  _ that _ particular feeling over the years—occupational hazard)—and with absolutely no backup. Green or otherwise.

_ Bad. _

After a few minutes of futilely trying to slip out of the bonds, or yank the needles out of his arms, or, hell, even roll onto his side, he became dimly aware of a faint, echoing noise in the distance. A noise that was coming closer and closer with each second.

There was a  _ crash _ , and suddenly the death-silent room became alive with noise and activity. It was practically an assault on his strung-out senses, and he couldn’t help but flinch away as a door slammed open with the crack of hard steel.

He wasn’t alone anymore—that much was obvious, with the ringing voices and the footsteps that were soft-loud-soft as they came closer and then farther away again. There were people—multiple people, but he couldn’t quite tell how many—he couldn’t quite make out—

Blue light zigzagged across the room and something blew open with a blast, and although the light had faded, traces of it still lingered across his vision and framed the red-and-gold shape hovering a few feet off the floor.

Voices, tinny and coated with a staticky sound, reverberated around the walls, bouncing back and forth as he tried to follow them.

There was someone else, someone with a sweeping red cape and a silvery glint as they stepped into the light, still too blurry to make out. Next to them was someone all in blue, the colors bright and their too-fast voice filling up most of the space. A couple of black blurs dropped down from the ceiling, adding their voices to the mix, and why was everything moving so  _ fast _ —

The light seemed to turn up, so blinding it was practically an audible whine, and his eyes shut to block it out. The insides of his eyelids were red and fuzzy, and going back to sleep would have been such a promising idea if everyone would just  _ shut up. _

One of the voices started yelling something, and he didn’t have a chance to form a thought or even make an attempt to figure out what was being yelled before he was curling in on himself, an instinct formed by years of knowing the unfortunate truth that yelling meant danger—but he was prevented by the restraints that were still bound tight across him, and the slow, sluggish reactions of his definitely-tranquilized body.

“... … ...”

“... ...?”

“…!”

Someone leaned over him, casting a shadow to shield him from the light, and then there was a  _ shink _ of something sharp and the restraints went loose. 

“... … …? … … …”

_ I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. _ It was all just sounds, like he was hearing them from underwater.

“... …”

“... … …!”

“... … … ...”

They were having a conversation now, those mysterious people who  _ he should know  _ but he didn’t know  _ but he should _ . Talking above him, over him, about him—was he in danger right now? Was there—should he be—he should be doing something, what was it, what  _ was _ it.

One of them said his name.

“Bruce?”

And he  _ knew  _ that, he knew that voice, he should recognize it, come on, this was—this was—

_ A danger or a friend or a rescue or a capture or on purpose or on accident and an accident that will leave with dozens of people dead and someone who speaks English and someone who was removed pretty far removed until they were dragged back in and— _

He opened his mouth, but he didn’t think he would be able to tell if he had made a sound or not.

Maybe that was good. He didn’t even know what he should say.

One of the people made a noise that sounded distinctly like a curse, and then he could feel, he could feel so much as arms wrapped around him, every piece of exposed skin protesting at the sudden touch that was  _ all over _ and  _ too much _ and now he was being picked up and his head settled against something hard ( _ armor? _ ) as the voices continued around him.

He wanted to protest. Wanted to get out, wanted to be let down, but the small part of his brain (that was waking up now, but slowly, too slowly) that still functioned reminded him that he would almost definitely fall on his face if that happened.

So he dealt with it, dealt with the twisting in his stomach and the prickling of his skin every time he was jostled up and down, the other person’s grip tightening protectively. Dealt with it all the way out of the room, into a hallway where shadows and cracked glass blurred across his still-shaky vision, spinning themselves around until floor was ceiling was wall. Dealt with it until they reached a set of stairs, and with every step-up-step-down-step he sank further and further into the grasp, and then he really did cry out, pathetic and weak and thready—

And then the clearest voice yet came from above him, cutting through the low whisperings going on from all the others.

“It’s all right, Bruce. You can sleep now.”

He didn’t have much choice but to listen.

* * *

When Bruce woke up, he was wrapped in a blanket and lying propped up on a cot in a room he dimly recognized as being somewhere in one of the main S.H.I.E.L.D. bases. He didn’t know enough about S.H.I.E.L.D. (and frankly, he didn’t want to) to determine whether or not it was their actual headquarters or whether it was just the place they’d deemed most appropriate (i.e.: expendable) to host the Avengers during their post-mission recoveries, but considering… well, considering the Avengers, it was probably the latter. Wherever he was, the lights were dimmed to a reasonable level (thank god) and the room was silent of any of the typical nonsense he’d expect from a S.H.I.E.L.D. base right after a mission.

Also, his side kinda hurt. But he was focusing on the positives.

Tony was sitting across from him in an uncomfortable-looking chair, a cut above his cheek and the glow of post-battle adrenaline in his eyes only tempered by the little spark of excitement when he noticed Bruce’s open eyes.

“Hey there, big guy,” he said, a little cautiously, like he’d tried this little routine before and gotten no response. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Bruce fumbled an arm out from under his blanket and rubbed it across his forehead. “Am I?” The sound of his own voice surprised him somewhat—he felt like he hadn’t heard it in a long time, which was very odd, because surely it couldn’t have been  _ that _ —

He was interrupted as Tony visibly slumped in relief. “There’s the sarcastic genius rage monster we know and love. I was gonna miss you, Banner.”

His words sounded flippant—just the regular old Tony Stark rambling—but there was a definite undercurrent of  _ something _ that had Bruce struggling to sit up.

“What happened?”

_ If I had a nickel for every time I needed to ask that question… _

But Tony was already answering, and once he got that stream of words started, it didn’t stop. “They took you, Bruce. I don’t know who exactly, but you better believe I’m gonna find out and make them wish they hadn’t. I’d—you know, I’d like to see Rhodey make fun of me now for not throwing anything away.” He shrugged. “I can be a bit of a hoarder, I can admit that, but I’m rich; I’m allowed. That old gamma signature tracing equipment was the only way we could find you.” He leaned closer and Bruce had no choice but to make eye contact. “We were really worried about you, buddy.”

“Sorry,” Bruce said. “Next time I’ll leave a note.”

Tony punched him in the arm. “Asshole.”

Bruce curved his mouth up into a grin, but that softened as he looked, really looked, into Tony’s face. At those brown eyes that were wide and unblinking, like Bruce would disappear if he looked away, and Bruce made a mental note to shut down any attachment-issues-related banter in future team meetings. Anyone would think the whole kidnapping thing had gone the other way around—and he remembered, with a flash of guilt, that it had, once.

“I wish I could say that nothing like this is gonna happen again,” he said, picking at a fold on the blanket. “But… you know there’s a reason I had to go on the run.”

Tony sat up. “Well, in case you missed the memo, that shit changes now. For all of you—you guys live in my tower and I’m going to do my best—” He paused, his gaze flicking back over to Bruce from where he had apparently been intensely cataloging the contents of a shelf in the back corner. “—and might I remind you that a Tony Stark best is like nine or ten steps above most bests—to make sure the only thing you’ve got to worry about here is Steve’s cooking.”

He laughed at the face that Bruce couldn’t help but pull. “Right. That got you.”

Bruce shook his head. There was a pause before he asked, “So where is Cap? And, uh, everyone else?”

“Debrief.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows and Tony waved a hand.

“All right, I guess _ technically _ I’m supposed to be there too.”

“You should be.”

“I had a prior commitment.”

There was a pause during which Bruce unsuccessfully tried to keep a straight face.

“And what, pray tell, are you thinking about there, Banner?”

“I can’t believe people think you’re the best at one-liners,” Bruce said, dropping his fist into his lap. “That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tony, to his credit, looked absolutely unabashed—but then again, Bruce kind of doubted that Tony Stark had ever been abashed a day in his life. “Would you have liked it better if I said I had a doctor’s note?”

_ Oh god. _ “I think  _ I  _ might need a doctor’s note after this,” Bruce said wryly. The pain in his side—which hurt more than it had when he’d first woken up, unless he was imagining things—twinged in agreement. He resisted the urge to lift the blanket and check.

Even though it was becoming rapidly harder to ignore.

Tony gave him a sharp look. This is what he got when all his friends were geniuses and superspies. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fine. I just kinda want to get back to my own bed.” And good for him that he’d managed to get that out sounding like a human being—he’d phrased that last part deliberately; Tony liked it when any of them referred to the tower as their home (even if Thor’s real home was a funky Viking palace in outer space; Clint, Natasha, and Steve all had access to S.H.I.E.L.D. housing; and Bruce hadn’t stayed anywhere longer than a few months in five years).

Sure enough, Tony grinned. “In that case, why don’t you get some clothes on and I’ll see about getting you outta here.” He stood up, reaching behind his chair and tossing a bundle over his shoulder.

Bruce reached out to catch it, feeling the injury—oh, it was definitely an injury; he could feel the wet smear when he moved and silently hoped that there wasn’t any visible red staining the blanket—pull at his side. He stopped himself from making a sound; Tony was already worried enough about him, and as long as he could convince everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. (because the chances that there were no security cameras in this room were exactly none) that he was okay, the sooner he could get back to the tower.

Besides, his healing factor would probably kick in soon.

Probably.

Unless whatever Hulk-suppressing drugs had been shoved in his veins were also affecting— _ nope. _

_ Not thinking about that. _

_ Focusing on Tony. _

_ Yep. _

He blinked, and somehow Tony had already moved to the door in the split second his eyes were closed. 

And had apparently been talking the entire way, because he was mid-sentence when Bruce tuned back in. “—go bother somebody else. Unless… uh… you need help?”

Bruce followed Tony’s gaze to the pile of clothes in his lap. “Oh.  _ No.  _ No, I got it.”

Tony nodded in relief and then held up a finger like he’d remembered something. “Almost forgot; you probably haven’t gotten anything to eat in a couple days, want me to grab you something? S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria, I know, but it’ll probably be a spell before they clear you to leave…”

_ Days? _

And he would’ve been more concerned about that, but the sudden twist in his stomach yanked his thoughts away from that quick.

He swallowed. Hard. “Uh, no, it’s fine.”

Tony continued like Bruce hadn’t spoken. “I’m gonna grab you something; I know you’ve got the whole Steve Rogers metabolism thing going on and I’ve seen that guy eat four pizzas by himself.” He glanced over his shoulder and must have noticed the pleading look on Bruce’s face, because he relented. “Okay, something small.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Approximately fourteen minutes, three failed attempts at getting a clean shirt on without wincing in pain, one panic-fueled success at getting said clean shirt on because he could hear Tony’s footsteps coming back from the hall, and one awkward selfie because Tony wanted to prove to the rest of the team that Bruce was really alive and the two of them hadn’t snuck back to Avengers Tower without them later, Bruce was sitting cross-legged on his S.H.I.E.L.D. cot, eating a cup of yogurt and fully clothed for the first time in he-didn’t-even-know-and-maybe-he-should-ask-about-that long.

His mind was finally feeling closer to normal, but it wasn’t quite at a hundred percent yet, as evidenced by the slight fuzzy distortion around the ceiling lights and the headache whenever he tried to even  _ think _ about the circumstances that had led him to this situation. He didn’t know if these lingering side effects were from the leftover drugs in his system (that should  _ really _ have burned off by now, if that was the case) or blood loss from this injury in his side.

Yeah, that hadn’t gone away yet. In fact, it was doing the exact opposite, starting to throb in earnest and making it very hard to stop himself from peeking down—he already felt lightheaded enough, and the last thing he needed right now was to pass out again.

So Bruce focused instead on bringing the next spoonful to his mouth. “This tastes like strawberry ice cream.”

Tony looked up from where he’d been poking at his phone. “Uh. That’s because it’s strawberry flavored, big guy.”

_ Right _ . The room was kind of spinning again. Had it ever stopped?

He shut his eyes and set the spoon down next to his half-empty container. Not that he wasn’t hungry—he was starting to believe Tony when he’d said Bruce had been captured for days—but everything was hurting to the point where he wouldn’t want to make any bets on what his body planned to do in the near future.

_ Just breathe. In and out. Focus on something else. _

But everything else was a twisting blur—

Across from him, Tony squinted at his phone screen before his expression shifted into mock horror, and he looked up at Bruce. “Sorry, Banner; I’m gonna have to leave you for a sec. The debriefing has apparently reached the point where Steve is  _ texting _ me to come. Well, his exact words are something very unprofessional for the captain of integrity and righteousness or whatever, but…  _ Steve. _ ”

Bruce shrugged. “Steve texts.”

“I know he does. In theory.” Tony shook his head as he typed something back, his fingers moving so fast across the touch screen that he could easily be typing a paragraph in the amount of time Clint would type “k.” He shoved the phone at Bruce once he was done. “Look at this. He’s using emojis.”

Bruce looked at the phone, then back up at Tony. “I don’t have my glasses on.”

“Maybe Natasha stole his phone.”

“No, if it was Nat she’d be using the…” Bruce waved his hand. “With the colons and parentheses. She thinks using the regular emojis traps you within a soulless corporate entity.” Or something like that.

Tony tilted his head. “Do you ever get the feeling we’re the only rational ones on the team?”

“You’re kidding?”

Tony looked hurt for a second before his face split into a grin. “Yeah. We’re all complete nut jobs.” He stood up. “Anyway, I’ve got to go rescue Captain Spangles—or at least rescue his phone from Romanoff.”

“I told you, she doesn’t use that kind of emojis.”

“She’s a  _ spy _ , Bruce, you don’t think she can blend in? Come on.” But Tony was already walking toward the door, sliding his phone in his pocket. He was wearing a couple layers of T-shirts, like he’d wanted to change after the battle but didn’t have the energy to take off the one he’d already been wearing. It still didn’t entirely muffle the glow of the arc reactor. “I’ll be right back.”

Bruce pulled his face into a smile. “Have fun.”

Tony made a noise before stepping out the door and closing it behind him, and Bruce let the smile drop off his face and his head drop back against the wall. Maintaining that brief surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the past half hour had been exhausting, and the hard cot suddenly felt like one of the Avengers Tower beds. 

Going to sleep would not be one of his best ideas, though.

God, his side  _ really hurt _ .

Thankfully, the sweatshirt that Tony had brought him was dark enough so that it would hopefully be able to hide any blood seeping through the fabric.  _ Not _ that that was going to happen. Because it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t that bad, and he’d be back at the tower soon enough, and then he could put a couple Band-Aids on it and let his enhanced healing take care of the rest, and then he’d be fine. Yes. 

Right now, though…  _ hmmm… _

Right now…

His eyes kept closing. He wanted them to stop doing that, but the air conditioning in here ( _ why is there air conditioning in here? It’s September _ ) was cold and the blanket was warm and he was so so tired.

_ Stop it. _

But he was past the point of listening to his rational thoughts, and he somehow fell asleep through the steadily growing pain.

* * *

When Bruce woke up, he wasn’t sure he had. Colors and lights and shadows were spinning around him again, like the tranquilizers in his bloodstream were making a resurgence, and his heartbeat seemed to have moved upward.

There were people surrounding him, and for a moment he thought it might be the rest of the team, free of their debriefing and ready to head back to the tower, but then the sleep cleared out of his eyes, and it hit him that whoever these people were, they were definitely  _ not _ the team.

His well-practiced (and well-used) fight-or-flight instincts kicked in then, and Bruce tried to move before he’d even fully decided on one of the two—

—tried—

—and was stopped by a very sudden, very sharp pain in his side that seemed to have multiplied by ten times since he’d fallen asleep.

For a moment, Bruce’s brain whited out, and then he had to hold very still and take in a breath, because  _ holy fuck ow _ and he hadn’t thought it was possible for him to still feel hurt like this. Not when he had the Hulk… but the Hulk was only a thready whisper in the back of his mind, whereas this pain was thumping bright and hot and—

One of the shadowy someones moved, and Bruce recognized the glint of a badge. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents staring down at him with  _ that look _ in their eyes, and oh, this was not good.

Bruce was talking before he was aware of it, his words weak but definitely there, definitely audible for people who’d been trained as secret agents. “What’s going on?”

None of them answered, but the one who had been peering over him drew back quickly. Bruce shrunk in, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible, but how much more nonthreatening could he get while he was half asleep and wrapped in a blanket, while still working tranquilizers out of his system?

Apparently not enough, because now one of the agents was speaking into their coms, and Bruce couldn’t hear it all but there was definitely something about  _ reinforcements _ , and this was bad, this was very very bad, this was exactly what S.H.I.E.L.D. had said it wouldn’t be and of course Bruce had  _ believed _ —

And then he looked down, down to where his shirt had been half pulled up, revealing… oh.

Oh.

Oh, that made sense. 

His plan of a couple Band-Aids wouldn’t really…

Bruce didn’t have the energy to finish the joke as he blinked at the gaping and the bleeding and the ever-so-slight tinge of green that was starting to turn around the edges.

His eyes widened, but he couldn’t even form a thought before something was jabbed into his arm ( _ not again _ ) and unconsciousness rushed up for him for a third time.

* * *

They’d taken him to the S.H.I.E.L.D. containment cell.

Of course they had.

Bruce slumped on the floor, listening to his own heartbeat echo off the walls, his hand pressed limply to the wound in his side—pressed not too tightly, but not too loosely either. Both of them would only hurt more—it was a delicate balance, just like everything else.

His skin was sticky with blood. It almost covered up the green creeping through his veins.

The red eyes of security cameras stared out at him from the other side of the not-glass, and he only managed to stare back for a moment before he was drifting again.

He drifted for a while, in and out of a haze where the pulsing ache that radiated through his body battled for space with the Hulk’s roar. 

It was the only constant.

* * *

Bruce didn’t know how long it had been when he finally blinked open his eyes to find that his vision was clear and he could think without every direction of his mind being assaulted, but it wasn’t long enough that anyone would have let him out of the cell. When he sat up, his back hit against cold glass.

That was… not ideal, but it wasn’t the first concern on his mind. He peeked under his shirt to find that the horror-movie-type injury sliced into his side was almost completely gone, the last few traces of a green flush slowly fading out and blending into pale skin.

Bruce let out a slow sigh of relief that froze halfway out of his mouth when he turned his head to see the surveillance cameras still staring back at him. Now that… that could be concern number two.

This particular cage didn’t look much different from the one they’d tried (and failed. Oh, how they had failed) to keep Loki in a few months ago, and the half-joking thought flitted across his mind that they should file a complaint with the S.H.I.E.L.D. inner security department before it caught up to him that  _ he _ was the one being secured against.

Bruce cautiously raised a hand and laid it flat against the smooth glass. Solid. Not that he’d expected anything else. His skin felt clammy in comparison to the cold glass, but the leftover Hulk energy always tended to leave him overheated as his body quite literally tried to burn through it all. 

A shower would’ve been nice for that. Only after a few or eight or twelve more hours of sleep, though.

Something twitched in his peripheral vision, and Bruce turned just in time to see the cameras snapping to follow his movement. Cameras in themselves weren’t the worst things in the world, considering, but he knew full well that cameras weren’t all they had up there.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was all about contingencies.

He pushed himself to his feet shakily and looked directly into the nearest camera that had tracked his motion easily.

“Hey.” He waved. “S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury. Whoever’s watching this. If you can’t already tell, the Other Guy’s not coming out anytime soon. There’s no danger here.” He paused and let out a breath. “So, uh, yeah. If you wouldn’t mind… letting me out, that would be great.”

He waited.

And waited.

There was no answer—and the door remained locked even after his experimental shove—and there was no answer for long enough that he started to wonder if it was worth looking ridiculous to try again. Not that he really expected them to listen to him, but there wasn’t much else he could do from inside the cell.

Well, there was one thing he could do, but he wasn’t that desperate yet.

Fortunately, Bruce was saved from having to make that decision when the door at the far end of the room suddenly opened, and the first voices he’d heard since Tony floated inside as Clint Barton came stalking in, trailed by several protesting agents.

The top half of his Hawkeye uniform had been replaced by a hoodie that looked like it would be large on Thor, the hood pulled down and effectively hiding his expression as he walked right up to the side of Bruce’s cell and started fiddling around with the keypad without looking at him.

“Hey, Banner.”

“Clint.” Bruce glanced at the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, all of whom were frowning in Clint’s direction.

“What are you doing in there?”

_ Um. _

One of the other agents spoke up. “It’s just a precaution. A necessary one.” Absolutely no one in this room was looking at Bruce, and he was tempted to rap on the glass, but the door was already beginning to slide open.

“Nah,” Clint said simply, shifting back to make room for Bruce, who didn’t hesitate before stepping out of the cell.

“This is a security breach,” the agent protested.

Bruce nodded. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” That got the agents’ attention, those wary expressions that he always got from people who didn’t know what to make of him, and on another day—a day where he hadn’t come straight off a kidnapping attempt to nearly bleeding out in a S.H.I.E.L.D. containment room—he might’ve even tried to mess with them a little, if Clint hadn’t spoken up.

“Actually, I’m level seven, so I can authorize this.” It was amazing how bored Clint could sound all the time—Bruce wasn’t sure if it was just the guy’s resting face, because he hadn’t seen it shift throughout alien battles and falling off of buildings and blazing fiery explosions (although it cracked whenever they were at the tower and he was texting Natasha under the table while Steve and Tony argued), but he’d definitely picked the right career.

The agent, however, did not look convinced. “That’s only if all agents level nine or higher in the building are incapacitated.”

Clint snapped his fingers. “Forgot about that part of it.”

“You can read over your employment file when we get back to the tower,” Bruce said, his hand half-raising to steer Clint out the door, but deciding against it at the last minute, tucking both his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. “C’mon.”

“Sheesh, you’re bossy today.”

But Clint followed him out, to the obvious irritation of the other agents, out into the black-tiled hallway, where Bruce belatedly realized he didn’t know where they were going and let Clint take the lead all the way to a small conference-type room that was probably around the actual debriefing room.

Debriefing was the furthest thing on any of its occupant’s minds, however.

As Bruce and Clint stepped inside, they were forced to stop halfway-in-halfway-out of the doorway to avoid smacking into either the Avengers team leader or the Avengers team I.T. guy.

Steve and Tony were both pacing back and forth across the length of the room, occasionally walking into each other and glaring at the other one like it was all their fault before continuing to argue into their respective phones. Steve had a finger stuck in his other ear to block out the extremely animated discussion coming from Tony—who had actually pressed his phone in between his ear and his shoulder like a working mom in a sitcom, leaving both of his hands free to gesture in the empty air. 

_ Whatever they’re so worked up about has to be important if they aren’t just letting JARVIS send the message. _

Natasha and Thor had at least bothered to pretend that they were relaxed, both of them seated at the table and playing an idle game of…  _ they are not playing tic-tac-toe. _ That was officially too much for Bruce to handle today. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn’t have much of an opportunity to dwell on that, as it was impossible to ignore Steve and Tony’s rising voices vying for space.

“—and that isn’t the point, all right? The point is that he’s still an Avenger, and—”

“—rescheduling is such a pain in the ass; you understand, right? Now what it really comes down to is whether I’m right or you’re right, and I honestly couldn’t say, so let’s operate on the assumption that I’m right, saves time—”

“—he’s human and if this is going to be the knee-jerk reaction every time he—”

“— _ Avengers _ Tower, last time I checked? Emphasis on the  _ ven _ , not the  _ gers _ —”

“—you can call it whatever you want; I’m calling it a violation of basic trust—”

“—and at the end of the day, aren’t we all nothing but specks of dust floating through the infinite void of space-time? Alone—”

“—captain of this team, and I’m not going to back off until—”

Bruce finally cleared his throat. “Uh, hey, guys? I’m back.”

Steve and Tony whirled around in nearly perfect unison, and Bruce almost laughed—their expressions were priceless. Slowly, Tony tapped the red “end call” button, and Steve muttered something into his own phone before doing the same, both of them staring at Bruce.

Clint raised his hand. “You’re welcome.”

There were footsteps, and Natasha and Thor were up from their seats, joining the rest of them in the front of the room. Bruce could feel eyes tracking down him, gazes lingering at the dried bloodstains on his sweatshirt (he’d have to dispose of it later: radiation) before settling on his face. Clint was hovering behind him, and Thor’s hand came about an inch from clapping him on the shoulder before Natasha stopped it, and Tony was just…  _ looking  _ at him.

He really must have looked terrible if  _ Steve  _ was the first one to speak.

“Hopefully, nothing like this is going to happen again,” Steve said at last. He was still wearing his uniform—whatever wear and tear it had gone through had ripped it some new stripes to go with the stars—but his shield was nowhere to be seen. “I understand the need for precautions, but there’s a line.”

Oh, there it was. The Captain Voice. Why Steve was using it on Bruce was beyond him.

“Cap here didn’t make S.H.I.E.L.D. very happy today,” Natasha remarked with a small smile.

Steve straightened his shoulders. “Well, they knew that me playing nice was the Plan A.”

“I liked my Plan A better,” Thor muttered.

“Your Plan A was outvoted,” Natasha pointed out.

“The Avengers aren’t a democracy.”

Steve lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Thank God for that.”

Bruce shuddered theatrically, but his eyes were still on Tony, because Tony hadn’t said a word since he’d seen Bruce walk in, and that was… not right.

So he watched, but Tony seemed content to watch back in silence, even as they made eye contact and the other four slowly began to catch on and quiet down.

Steve started to speak. “Tony—”

But Tony held up a hand, taking a step toward Bruce. Their gazes held for a long moment, and Bruce fought the intrinsic instinct to back up, to look away. He could feel the wide eyes of the team around them, no doubt wondering what Tony was thinking just as much as he was—

—and then Tony punched him in the shoulder for the second time that day, and the tension dissolved.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” Tony’s words were clipped, but belied something underneath, and Bruce was honestly thrown for a loop.

“Because I wasn’t?” was the first thing he managed to get out. “Not that bad, anyway,” he hastily amended when he saw the direction Tony’s eyebrows were arching. “It’s already healed.”

Behind him, he could sense Clint retreating into the corner like he wanted to blend into the wall, and Bruce was tempted to join him, especially as it seemed to be Natasha’s turn.

“Bruce, I saw your medical assessment.” Her eyes were afire with that “don’t-even-try-to-bullshit-me” look that… well, that worked.

“I was never assessed.”

“Yes, you were. When you were unconscious from blood loss and who knows what else—do you see what I’m getting at?” 

Bruce glanced around. It was really remarkable how everyone had the same expression. “Okay, please keep in mind that none of this was my idea—”

“You mean getting  _ kidnapped _ —” Tony burst out, but cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. That only messed it up more, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “We just got you back.”

“I’m fine now.” Bruce didn’t know what else he could say. It wasn’t much, but Tony seemed to grab onto it like a lifeline.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

And then Bruce knew what else he could do, and it was instinct more than thought as he stepped closer and pulled Tony into a hug that his teammate returned with surprising force. Bruce was nearly dead on his feet and still aching a little in the spot where his injury had been, but he somehow ended up being the one supporting most of Tony’s weight as his teammate seemed to go loose and just sort of collapse against him.

Bruce would have to wait until later—until he got the full report from Steve or Natasha or Thor or… no, not Clint—to do the exact math, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how long he had been captured and how long the others must have been looking (breaking him out couldn’t have been easy—there were rips and burns in their uniforms, scrapes on their skin and exhaustion in their eyes that they were all hiding well, masking it with the wells of concern). He pushed away the wave of guilt and wrapped his arms more firmly around Tony’s back.

A few moments passed, and then Steve was there, there but cautious, putting an arm around Bruce—and very carefully  _ only  _ Bruce—but only barely, like he was afraid he might break.

Bruce didn’t move, and then Natasha was heaving a loud sigh.

“Oh, for the love of—” She didn’t bother to finish the sentence as she launched forward, pulling Steve’s arm until it wrapped around Tony too, and then she was hugging them both, allowing herself this one fierce moment of contact.

Naturally, it didn’t take long for Thor—who had probably been considered for the god of spontaneous physical affection before he got landed with the whole thunder gig—to join in, practically lifting them all off the ground as a sudden spark of static electricity zapped through each of them in turn. Bruce jumped a little when it reached him, but grinned into Tony’s hair.

Somewhere along the line, Clint had gotten yanked in—Natasha was Bruce’s prime suspect—and he was right behind Bruce, sandwiched between him and Steve with his head nestled next to Bruce’s ear.

“Thanks for getting me out,” Bruce said. His voice was muffled.

“No prob.” Clint shifted, and Natasha mumbled something under her breath. “We’re a team; that’s what we do.”

“Yeah, but—”

Tony’s voice vibrated against Bruce’s skin beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt as his arms gave a little squeeze. “Banner, I swear—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. 

Bruce shut up and let himself melt into the collective embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
